


Need

by WahlBuilder



Category: Marvel, Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Other, Out of Body Experiences, Porn with Feelings, Sounding, Submission, Tentacles, Triple Penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 11:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15639969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Eddie has a need and trouble to ask for it, and his darling is not amused. They work it out eventually.





	1. Chapter 1

There is an itch in him. At first he doesn’t recognize it: it’s been a while. But as it grows, as his dreams change, their plots developing in a particular direction, Eddie notices it and sees it for what it is.

And now that he is, again, blissfully, whole, he’s not the only one who spots it.

**“Eddie.”**

He ignores the call, but it’s hard to ignore someone who can run his fingers down your spine not only under your clothes, but under your skin.

(There was a time of wild experimentation, both of them pushing at each other’s boundaries. It turned out, there was little either of them was unwilling to do for the other.)

 **“Not embarrassing, Eddie.”** His darling is like molten chocolate— **“chocolate, Eddie?”** —warm and rich and tempting in their mindspace.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Eddie murmurs. The man walking slightly ahead of him startles and turns around. Eddie shakes his head and speeds up past him.

 **“Eddie.”** It’s not impossible to hide something from the one you are sharing mindspace with—but when you’ve been together for long enough, when you are so alike, when you fit so neatly even though sometimes it’s the fitting of jagged edges... It’s nearly impossible. Especially when it comes to emotions.

“All right, I _am_ embarrassed,” Eddie admits, and when his darling runs yet another sensation down his spine (like a hot, big hand stroking him), he shivers and adds, “Just a tiny bit.”

**“Don’t be. We can have it. Can give it to you.”**

It’s so, so tempting, and he knows the itch would turn into a dull throbbing ache if not scratched.

“I’m fine,” he says instead.

Apparently, it’s a wrong answer, because his darling retreats away.

It’s so sudden that Eddie stumbles bodily and cries out aloud, “Love?” Not caring that other people might think him a creep. He reaches frantically across the cold emptiness that his darling has left—and he’s still there.

They are still whole.

It’s such a knee-weakening relief that Eddie has to sit down on the pavement, bury his face in his hands.

“You all right, pal?”

He startles when he’s touched by the shoulder, and looks up into the face of the guy he startled earlier. Frowning in worry. “Need me to call anyone?”

Eddie forces out a smile. “No, I’m okay. A little dizzy. Thank you.”

But the guy doesn’t move away, and Eddie is both grateful and annoyed. “You sure?”

Eddie realizes that he might look like he warrants the question. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll just rest here for a while. Thanks, man.”

The guy pats his shoulder, as though checking whether he’s _really_ okay, then departs. Eddie stares at his shabby jeans. He doesn’t like straining his darling, not for such trivialities as dressing for a simple walk. His beloved is not a suit.

Calmer now—they are still together—he reaches inside.

 **“Equals, Eddie. Partners.”** His love’s voice is colored wounded and exhausted. **“Sharing everything. You help me, but I help you, too. Or have you forgotten that it works both ways?”** It’s so sharply enunciated, proper words rather than thoughts-emotions, and Eddie is filled with the stinging heat of shame.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words thick in his head and his mouth. “I _have_ forgotten, it seems, and I am sorry.”

 **“Why, Eddie?”** Words again, between them like a thin—they are still together, after all,—but tangible wall. Spider-webs.

A part of his darling seems amused by this analogy.

Eddie hangs his head. “I _am_ ashamed of it, and we’ve only been together again for—”

 **“You think,”** he sounds so startled. The spider-web breaks, and his words become tendrils, seekers like those he uses physically. **“You think I wouldn’t give this to you? I gave this to you before.”**

He sounds so wounded again, and Eddie doesn’t want him to retreat, and says, “Before is not now. Before doesn’t mean you have to do it now.”

 **“...You think I wouldn’t choose you. You think I didn’t choose you, that it was some kind of—”** He trails off, and Eddie feels his anger, hot and all needles, reaching for a word his silly human would understand.

Eddie doesn’t want to screw this up again. Not this. “I’m sorry.”

**“I’m not an animal.”**

“I know, love.”

**“I’m not driven only by instincts!”**

“I know!” It is agony, knowing that he made his darling think he thought that, think he might have thought that even for a moment; knowing that he made his darling doubt himself again, and how is he different from all the others, then, how is he better than—

**“Shh. Eddie.”**

He listens to that voice, that presence, and not his spiraling thoughts.

**“I love you, Eddie.”**

He is cradled to his beloved’s presence, mentally, and many hands settle over his sides, his ribs, his shoulders, his thighs under his clothes.

Eddie closes his eyes, centered, calming down.

His darling deserves better—but he chose his silly human. And Eddie should accept that.

**“I love you, silly human.”**

Eddie smiles, can’t not to. “Thank you. For everything. Will you help me when we come home?”

**“Anything, Eddie. Anything.”**


	2. Chapter 2

When they return home, it’s already dark: they walked for a couple hours more, because Eddie needed to calm down properly. Because he didn’t want to rush it, didn’t want it to look like he was only indulging his love. Even though Eddie knew, _felt_ that his love wasn’t taking it this way.

It is dark, and their apartment is cold, but Eddie registers it only as something external, only because his darling registers it, adjusting accordingly. His darling has been winding up tighter in and around him, their mutual anticipation entwined and amplified.

Eddie notices his breathing is shallow and fast. “Darling,” he calls, and it comes out raspy.

He needs this. He lets himself need this.

**“Eddie.”**

He closes his eyes—and his beloved is behind him, a thick, powerful, _tangible_ presence, towering over him, broad and crushing-strong and—

Eddie’s whole body seizes up when a hand touches his spine over his thin T-shirt (of course his darling removed the jacket, he _was_ the jacket). It is big, that hand, proportions are that side of strange to feel distinctly inhuman. Long fingers bent just slightly, but not enough to feel like they have bones inside them. Sharp claws pinning the cotton of his T-shirt to his skin. Just there. Just that presence.

**“Eddie.”**

He shivers from that voice over his shoulder, impossibly, inhumanly low. Eddie opens his mouth, even though he’s not sure what he’s going to say—and those claws prick his skin. **“No, Eddie,”** his love purrs, **“No words. You are going to get what you want. What you _deserve_.”**

He is up only because of that hand on his back. Otherwise he would have collapsed.

The claws retreat, and that hand flattens on his back, so huge it is longer than half of the length of Eddie’s spine.

He’s ready to sob. A sliver of shame writhes in him, but the hand pushes, making him take a stumbling step forward, and more, and more, and that sliver of shame is trampled away.

Eddie _wants_.

He is aware only of that huge presence, and how much weight it has, making the floorboards creak. The walk is short—not to the bedroom, but to the couch, and Eddie is so, so grateful because he doesn’t think he would have been able to make it to the bedroom without—

 **“You,”** the voice rumbles, **“will do whatever I want. If I wanted you on the bed, you would be on the bed.”**

Some kind of noise tears out of Eddie’s throat, but he catches it in time, remembering the “no words” rule. Even though the noise wouldn’t have been a word.

The hand—his only point of contact—slides up his back, slicing the fabric away. It hangs from his shoulders, but not for long: that hand slides round to the front and draws one claw from the collar to the hem. Slowly. Eddie doesn’t dare to breathe or look down.

The claw doesn’t so much as scratch his chest.

The two claws slashing through the sleeves, however, _do_.

It stings sharply, and Eddie sucks in a breath as the shreds of his T-shirt fall down on the floor. It’s so dark he can really see—not even the usual ambient city light comes through the windows: they are blocked.

No lights to see.

He can only hear: his own rapid, gasping breathing, his hammering heart. The creaking behind him, the shifts of his beloved’s body otherwise silent. No way to tell what he would do next, his thoughts and plans carefully guarded.

Eddie’s head is swimming.

He can only feel: his right knee pressing in the couch cushion, a piece of cut cotton stuck to the sweaty skin between his shoulder blades. His beloved’s non-smell. Everything kept away.

Eddie can only react.

**“Down.”**

He lowers himself ungracefully onto the couch, without the aid of sight, suddenly disoriented. Kneels, gripping the back of the couch, coarse under his sweaty palms. Spreads his legs slightly, hoping it would ease the ache, though he’s still wearing jeans and it’s not helping any bit.

The chuckle rolls down his spine. **“Not like this.”** A hand grips his shoulder, great strength concealed, but he’s all too aware it can crush him into dust. A hand, and another on his other shoulder, and another on his back again. Burning, though Eddie is not sure whether it’s his beloved or himself running hot.

They move him easily, as though he’s nothing, as though he can’t hold his ground even when stripped away of everything.

They press him down, on his stomach, the couch rasping against his chest. He bites his lip trying to hold back a moan when a minute shift sends painful pleasure racing through him from the contact of his nipples with the cushions. When he is struck by the thought that he can shift again, just a little, unnoticeably, and grind his cock against—

 **“No.”** The voice slithers into his ear as a thick, long, long tongue slithers over it, hot like a brand, and raspy as a cat’s. **“You don’t get to move, Eddie.”**

“Please...” It’s so faint, so very, very quiet and he couldn’t possibly held it back.

His head is pressed to the cushions in retaliation, skull cradled in the big palm that can crush it without effort. Eddie is awash with humiliation and want, that hand now one of the two points of contact, frustration. The other is the raspy tongue scraping away the skin over his spine, leaving a wet trail that doesn’t even chill in the hot air.

Eddie wants to arch into it, but he is not allowed. Not allowed to do, only allowed to react, only want in frustration.

Only—

**“—submit.”**

Tears spring to his eyes, spill onto the fabric of the cushion that smells of damp and spice, like hot pepper.

He wants to. He wants to.

**“Submit.”**

Eddie squeezes his eyes tightly.

Then, he submits. His whole body goes lax, the constant din of thoughts in his head fades away.

The couch dips under the weight of his beloved getting on it, then Eddie is pinned down as his beloved straddles his thighs. More hands press on his back. So heavy. Eddie can feel his own ribs shifting under the pressure.

The hand on his skull slides over his cheek and across his lips. Eddie opens his mouth, and fingers that don’t have bones slide inside. He presses his teeth into them, just to feel the give of the changing non-flesh, then sucks. The taste definite but he can’t find the words for it. He can’t find the words for anything now.

He just feels. _Everything_.

He’s everywhere in the room, everything in the room: the impenetrable film covering the windows, blocking out the light of the city. The huge form curled over him on the couch. The hands and tendrils stroking his skin, everywhere, everywhere. Thread-thin feelers undoing the zipper on his jeans, hands pushing them off. Stripping him down.

**“Give in.”**

He does.

His skin is being pressed on, everywhere, from the vulnerable temples, so easy to cave in, to the throbbing pulse points on his throat, to the dips between his ribs, to his navel, and hips, and under his knees, and the soles of his feet, and the webbing between his fingers.

He only sighs, when a tendril—or perhaps a finger, he cannot say—slides between his ass cheeks and into his hole, easy, slick.

He inhales and sucks stronger on the tendrils thickening in his mouth, stretching his lips, when a claw runs over his balls.

He cries out and _bites_ when a tendril, thin but still _too thick_ , thrusts into his cock.

Eddie can’t think, outside and inside his body all at once, his mind stretched, spread out, _bared_ —and there is a pressure there, too, guarding him from his own thoughts, his doubts, his fears, enveloping him, sliding into him.

He is suspended on the needlepoint of pain and pleasure, sharp like a glass, the _when_ and _where_ collapsed into a bright hot spot blazing in nothingness as he is being taken, and taken apart, and torn, and healed, and _loved_ , and that bright spot grows and grows and grows until it envelops everything, everything.

He is eased back into his body carefully, cradled by another presence, being slowly untangled from it—but not completely, never completely.

He becomes aware of his self, his name: Eddie Brock, and here is his darling.

Instead of the coarse couch, he is on a broad chest, held close to it by too many hands. It doesn’t rise or fall with breathing, but it shifts and ripples and smooths again in time with _Eddie’s_ breathing.

Eddie is clean and naked, and his darling is warm, and Eddie turns a little to wrap his arms around the thick neck, to burrow into him.

 **“All right, Eddie?”** The voice sounds both aloud and in his mind, and Eddie kisses that neck because it’s the closest and he can’t bring himself to move yet. He can never find words for the taste of this non-flesh.

“All right, love. That was...” He trails off, nuzzling the smooth skin-that-is-not-skin.

**“Yes. It was.”**

Eddie is aware of the flow of time, too, and light creeping through the windows—not the sunrise, but the ever-glow of the city.

One of the hands on his body scratches his thigh. Eddie smiles. “Thank you. I needed it.”

 **“Yes. I needed it, too. So tasty, Eddie.”** The purr is vibrating under Eddie’s ear, and just like this, heat rushes down his neck. His body is not only clean, it has been _cleaned_.

 **“Mm, yes, delicious,”** his other rumbles, a tease, but in their mindspace Eddie feels that hunger that has nothing to do with food or biology at all.

“Insatiable,” he murmurs, stroking the planes of sculpted muscle on the broad chest. Some of his darling must be forming an extension of the couch, because really, it’s too narrow even for Eddie himself.

**“Goes both ways, Eddie.”**

The purring doesn’t stop. It doesn’t have one source, it just vibrates through the whole being of his darling, tickling Eddie’s skin.

A promise for more, shared, mutual. Accepted.

“Yes, love. It sure does.”


End file.
